


Harry Prince, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Dark Lord

by Saeva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Death Eater Harry Potter, Flirting, M/M, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Mentor/Protégé, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Oaths & Vows, Oblivious Harry Potter, Parent Severus Snape, Politics, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Smart Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeva/pseuds/Saeva
Summary: At 11 years old Harry Potter makes a deal with the Dark Lord in order to get away from the Dursleys and have some semblance of safety. At 20, Harry Prince has grown into a well-educated and confident young man who can't say he regrets it.Or, nine years of meetings between prophesised equals when one of them has a plan and the other's mostly winging it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 23
Kudos: 201
Collections: Tomarrymort Valentines Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiranightshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranightshade/gifts).



> Part of the Tomarrymort Valentine's Exchange 2021. Beta'ed by [GryphonFeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryphonfeather) and [BrightEyedAthene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightEyedAthene/).
> 
> Kiranightshade requested: 'Harry chooses to side with Voldemort at the Mirror of Erised', 'Harry is raised by Severus and joins Death Eaters and/or attends an initiation ceremony and is approached by Voldemort', and 'Any dark, Death Eater Harry being devoted af to Voldemort.' The requests really moved into each other so I wrote all three. I hope you enjoy!

Harry gripped the side of the stool and thought, _Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin._

“Not Slytherin, eh?” the small voice said. “Are you sure? You could be great, you know. It’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about it.” 

He bit his lip. Greatness… he didn’t care so much about that but to prove the Dursleys -- his uncle, who thought he’d be nothing more than a useless layabout -- wrong did mean something to him. Still, to be in the same house as Draco ‘I’m a ponce’ Malfoy, who reminded Harry as nothing so much as his odious cousin Dudley...

_Is there somewhere else that can help me to be great?_

“Hmm, hmm. Yes. This house will help encourage you to use that talent I see so clearly. Very well… best be RAVENCLAW!” 

The rush of relief that he was Sorted somewhere, anywhere, hit Harry so suddenly he only noticed the odd looks from the house of gold and red as he was making way to the table clapping for him enthusiastically. A strange pair of redheads were even bemoaning ‘We don’t got Potter! We don’t got Potter!’ So strange that anyone would want him like that! 

But then he was overwhelmed by the introductions being pressed at him from every corner and he forgot all about it. He’d found a new home, after all. 

Ϟ

_I am going to murder Michael._

‘Aren’t you curious?’ ‘It’s a mystery to solve!’ ‘What if Dumbledore means it as a challenge?’ ‘You solved the riddle, you should be the one who takes it, Harry.’ _Bloody wanker. I should’ve made him take the potion._

“Potter,” the man said, cocking his head. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You didn’t seem to have the necessary lawlessness to be here tonight. Ah, the famed Ravenclaw curiosity I imagine.” 

He narrowed his eyes back. “Were you faking the stutter the whole time? Do you know how hard you made it, learning anything from you?” 

“Well, I did have to throw them off. After all, p-p-poor st-stut-tering Quirrell, afraid of his own shadow, couldn’t possibly have been a threat.” That made sense… but it was still a nasty thing to do, mucking about with people’s educations. "Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

It was only then that he realised that Quirrell stood in front of the strange mirror Harry’d last seen when exploring under his cloak during Winter hols. This did explain Dumbledore ‘happening’ to find him in front of the mirror then. 

Quirrell began to mutter to himself but Harry’s curiosity bubbled up. He started with the obvious. Obviously, the troll at Halloween when that Granger girl got so injured was a distraction but what about when he’d heard the professor pleading in the classroom, so close to tears? 

“Is someone threatening you to do this?” 

“What? No… Not -- “ A spasm of fear flitted across Quirrel’s face. "Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am weak —” 

But there hadn’t been -- “You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” Harry hadn’t seen anyone else with the man but, then, he could have barely missed it, couldn’t he have?

“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. . . . Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” He shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me . . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me. . . .”

Lord Voldemort? Voldemort, the man who’d tried to kill Harry, who’d waged and nearly won a war against the government until something -- likely something his own mother had caused but that Harry had maybe been key in -- had blown him back so badly he’d been announced dead, was somehow able to watch Quirrell at any time? A fission of cold worry curled in Harry’s stomach and he swallowed hard. 

“What do you want the stone for? No, what does your ruler -- leader?”

“Master.” 

“What does your Master want the stone for?” Did the man want to be rich or did he properly know the Elixir of Life would truly make you immortal like Flamel was famed to be? 

It was not Quirrell who answered him but a strangely high pitched second voice coming from somewhere behind him. “You know what is in the mirror? Do you know the mirror as well then, boy?” 

“Don’t call me ‘boy’.” Harry bristled, glaring at the disembodied spirit. Well, more at Quirrell but he hoped the spirit could tell too. 

“Brave child. I’d wondered after you were skipped over for Gryffindor.”

“The Hat said I could have gone there. Or Slytherin.” 

“Bravery and cunning. I do value both. Quirrell, restrain him for now.” He flicked his wand out, throwing a spell at Harry, who dodged behind a pillar. Harry Hunting had been good for duel practice this year and now he saw it in a practical application. He needed to distract them. “Come now, child, there’s no need to die here tonight. Don’t be a fool. Better save your own life rather than meet the same end as your parents.”

_I don't want to die._ Harry shivered. “It’s the mirror of erised. Desire.” 

“Quite clever you are. I’d left you alone this year because I was curious. Both that a Potter would be in Ravenclaw and at your strange presentation. Your parents were both quite intelligent, are you aware? Your mother, for all her… limitations, was a prodigy in multiple fields. It pained me to kill her. She needn’t have died but she was quite determined to defend you.” 

“Defend me? I was the target?” Harry stepped closer, though without straying too far from the safety of the pillar, trying to think of a good way through this somehow. He needed to think. If only he could prevent Quirrel from getting the stone by getting it first he’d have something to bargain with! 

“Bargain?” _Can he hear me thinking?_ “Yes, we can bargain… if you deliver the stone to me. What is it you wish, child? Riches? Power? Respect? I can teach you how to achieve any of these things.” 

He snorted. His vault had money enough to see him through school. Power was only good if he wanted to deal with his fame and he didn’t. Respect? That was -- Well, he’d rather earn that on his own. No, the thing he wanted most, as the mirror of Erised itself had shown him, he couldn’t have. But that didn’t mean he had to walk away with _only_ his life. What good was his life if he ended up back with the Dursleys? 

“Is there a way to guarantee you hold your side? With magic?” 

“Yes. A vow… even in my current, diminished form, I can perform this. Quirrell, give me your wand. I will speak to him face-to-face.” 

“Master, you tax yourself!” 

“I have strength enough for this.” 

Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. He watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot. Harry couldn’t make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most unusual Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. 

“Harry Potter . . .” it whispered. Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn’t move. “See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere shadow and vapor. I have form only when I can share another’s body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds...”

That this man had power enough to convince someone, even in his current, monstrous form, to share their very body with him made something in Harry’s chest pound. That was power, wasn’t it? True power, better than any fame. But, no, this was a man others called ‘master’. He wouldn’t share this power. And, anyway, there was still something Harry desired even more. 

“I want you to take me with you this summer. To live with you. And vow not to beat me or starve me or lock me in a cupboard.” He panted as he got the demand out. He could do this and protect himself. 

“Believing Dumbledore’s propaganda... the dastardly Dark Lord, so terrible to starve a child... He does get to them quite young now, doesn’t he Quirrell?” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Propaganda? What’s --”

“Lies that Dumbledore has told you to poison you against me.” 

“No. He’s never -- We’ve barely spoken. I just --” _Don’t want you to be like the Dursleys._ “I want to be sure I’ll be safe.” 

“These… relatives of yours -- they’ve done these things to you?” 

“They’ve never exactly starved me.” Even if it felt like it sometimes during the long period after he let the snake loose in the zoo on Dudley’s birthday. Or the time he Apparated onto the school roof and couldn’t get down. 

“I disagree. I can see your memories as well, child.” 

“Oh.” His face flushed with shame that someone had seen how the Dursleys treated him but he rallied. “I want a vow.” 

“You will join me, child. That is the exchange. I will make certain you are looked after and you will join me.” 

He gulped. “... Yes. Okay. How does a vow --” But he hadn’t even finished the question when he felt a warm glow and a mental voice, a great deal deeper than the reedy one coming from the snake-ish part-man, who vowed those things. He felt the vow take and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Help Quirrell figure out how to retrieve the stone.” It reminded him of Quirrell’s fearful recall that his master did not forgive mistakes easily.

Harry stared hard at the mirror. _What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s hidden!_ To his surprise, he saw more than his own pale, worried face in the mirror. His mirror-self smiled at him and put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — he’d gotten the Stone. 

He pulled it out of his pocket and held it up, carefully offering the stone over to Quirrell, whose hand trembled as he took it. 

“Well done… yes, well done indeed. I will retrieve you early in the summer… away from the machinations of Dumbledore. Now, I must rest. Quirrell, see the boy and his housemates back to their dorm.” 

“Yes, Master. Of course.” 

Harry breathed out a final sigh of relief. Maybe this deal would end awfully but he knew the Dursleys were awful already so it seemed worth the risk. He had the vow and the promise of meeting again soon. It would have to do for now. 

Ϟ

After Harry convinced his friends that the end of the third-floor corridor had been emptied out by the time they’d got there, the fortnight flew by. Before he knew it he was nestled in a train compartment with Michael, Sue Li, and Morag, half-dreading and half-fluttery about what would happen when the train arrived. To his disappointment, only his Uncle, angry at having driven out to London to pick Harry up, met him at the station and as soon as he got back to the Dursleys his things were locked up in his cupboard and him behind five locks on the outside of Dudley’s second bedroom.

It wasn’t until a week later, as Harry sweated over the bed of petunias, looking a bit worse for wear (both him and the flowers, truly), that Voldemort made good. 

He appeared in a swish of lush black robes and a bespoke suit, unusual only in how he looked a bit like a posh telly star and not someone meant for the streets of Little Whinging. One moment Harry was tugging hard at a stubborn weed, his hands stinging from the gloveless effort, and the next a warm, _human_ hand touched his shoulder and a little rush of electricity jolted through his body. 

“Are your guardians in?” Voldemort asked by way of greeting. Harry nodded and the hand touched his chin now. “Words, little one.” 

“Yes, sir. They're watching telly.” 

“Very well. Let’s collect your things.” 

The next few minutes, short as they were, burned themselves into Harry’s mind. The fear of his trembling, whimpering tormentors. The way they screamed for once. How Dudley pissed himself and Vernon blustered and Aunt Petunia whinged that she’d never ‘wanted the brat’ but that Dumbledore had forced Harry onto them. He felt bad for them for a moment there until Voldemort broke into the cupboard to secure Harry’s meagre belongings and saw the space where Harry spent most of the first eleven years of his life.

The man glittered with his rage at the treatment of Harry, a deliberate, striking nature to him that peeled back the Dursleys’ excuses, their actions, their bloody awful justifications for treating Harry like an animal, and then the man, his voice gentle, his touch soft, asked to see it inside Harry’s mind. 

The Dursleys screamed a lot after that, living every moment they’d forced on Harry over the years, and only after did Voldemort bring the torment to an end. It ended with a spray of blood, glossy red and flowing from gashes of white, and the flickering of flames taking the stupid house on Privet Drive towards its own death. 

_I hope the fire makes it to Piers’ house._

Side-apparition, as Voldemort called it, afterwards was quite unpleasant and then they were somewhere altogether different. The alleys were cramped amid rows of small houses and a towering estate took up the skyline close by, but he simply took Harry’s hand and led him through the streets. 

It felt good, the hand in his, a low, warm pulse that seemed to give the Dark Lord pause when they first touched. It was something special, he was sure of it. They stopped at a modest but neat house at the last of a road called Spinner’s End and knocked. When Snape answered Harry froze, his stomach clenching over seeing his awful Potions’ Master out of school. Snape wasn’t as awful to Harry as he was to Gryffindors, according to Harry’s friend Neville, but he liked to bully. 

It wasn’t better that Snape seemed as surprised to see them, though he snapped out of it to bow for his master and let them in. “My Lord, please, come in. Potter.” 

‘My Lord’... of course his people wouldn’t call him ‘Voldemort’. They used ‘my Lord’ or ‘Master’. 

“Prince,” the Dark Lord said, in a soft drawl. “Our young friend here was so enterprising as to ask for an exchange when we met late this school year. You were right that Quirrell was up to something, Severus.” A mocking smile slipped onto him as he led _them_ into a cozy, neat kitchen and ran his fingers over the back of Harry’s messy hair along the neck. It made the boy shiver but the touch, so kind as it was, felt so good he melted into it. 

“He was working for you. I regret attempting to impede him if so, my Lord. If I may ask, why…” Snape gestured with a graceful hand at Harry. “I would expect you to have dealt with him.” 

Harry swallowed hard and reminded himself that he had a vow. Voldemort had promised him safety and care. “As I said, he leveraged as well as a child years older than him. It seemed a shame to snuff out such potential in a young wizard. There is a matter, now, of a vow. I promised him that he would be cared for, did I not, Harry?” 

His mouth went dry but after two swallows he managed a quiet, “Yes, sir.” 

“And it occurred to me you were quite attached to his mother. So much so that you begged for her life, as I remember.” Snape sucked a breath in and stared as hard as Harry had ever seen someone stare at another adult. “I offered, thrice, but she refused to abandon her child and her trap. She wished the boy to live. Now, Severus, you have the opportunity to fulfil her last wish. Dumbledore’s choice of guardians was --

“Oh, you grew up together, did you not? You’d know, then, the boy’s aunt. Petunia. Dreadful hag as she was.” 

“Tuney?” Snape’s eyes snapped to Harry as if he’d never seen him before. “Dumbledore put you with Lil -- Lily’s sister?” His eyes went to the Dark Lord. “Was, my Lord?” 

“I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident. She perished in a fire quite recently.” With the ease that Harry envied the Dark Lord snapped off a few, silent spells and tea things came zooming out of the cupboards. “Harry, please make the three of us tea. Severus, come with me.” 

The adults disappeared into the next room, abandoning Harry to his tea making but he didn’t complain. Making tea was a simple task and he lost himself to the rhythm of it until he heard a snarled, “ _cupboard? That spiteful bitch_ ”, before a sudden, unnatural silence fell. 

When they came back Snape was even more pale than usual, the sallowness in his skin nearly white now, and he looked at Harry with a pained expression. Harry ignored it, serving up tea easily with milk and sugar, and then stood around as the two adults sat at the kitchen table, unsure what he should do now. It was Voldemort who noticed, telling Harry to sit down and drink his tea, and Snape watched him for a moment while he did that too. 

Finally, the man spoke, his voice softer than it’d ever been when directed at Harry before. “The Dark Lord has decided you will stay here with me for the time being, under conditions of your vow.” 

Harry’s eyes shot over to the man, who reached out and stroked a hand over Harry’s head. “I’m not in a position to raise a child at the moment, Harry. Severus has given his own vow to me to take care of you. From now on, in my circles, you will be Harry Prince. Prince is the name of Severus’s mother’s family and the one he goes by within our own ranks. For a while it will be necessary for you to play at being Harry Potter still, but not forever.” 

“Alright.” Harry bit his lip for a moment before he nodded at Snape. “Sir. Um. Thank you for taking me in.” He knew the man didn’t have a choice, of course, but Snape nodded back. 

When tea was finished Voldemort stood. “I’ll return soon. Severus, I’ll expect a room cleared out for him by the time I return.” And then he was gone. 

Harry swallowed hard. “I won’t be any trouble, sir.” 

“Good. Come along. As it happens I do have a room I’m using for storage. Let us get to sorting what can and can’t be shrunken.” Snape stood, swooping out of the room, leaving no room to argue with him, and Harry hurried after so he wouldn’t get lost. 

The next hour was quiet, the only exchanges about where to place things or what to shrink, and he settled into it easily enough, calmly following instructions. Snape didn’t say a mean word or make a snide comment the entire time, directing the moving and taking things too heavy to be moved by hand with the ease of spells. Harry wanted to learn this magic, all the magic he’d seen today, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so. 

_Maybe I can ask Vold -- the Dark Lord for some book recommendations._

But that turned out to be unnecessary. When the Dark Lord did return around dusk, as Harry was devouring food as if he hadn’t seen it in a week (and, well, the Dursleys had been churlish again), it was with belongings -- clothing, a few pieces of furniture, and an entire chest of books. 

He called it a library chest and said, “They’re age coded,” as Harry opened it, his eyes going wide at how very many books there were. “Consider it an early birthday gift. I may not see you again this summer.” 

_Oh._ His stomach clenched but he nodded. The Dark Lord would be busy and Harry was a little kid, not really important in the grand scheme of things. “Of course. Thank you.” 

And by full nightfall he was saying his goodbyes again, leaving Harry in this strange house with this strange version of Snape, a ton of new items, and the dictate to write every fortnight even if he hadn’t much to say except that things were going well. Then he was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Staying with Severus isn’t nearly as horrible as Harry might imagine. 

That first night the man had put a shield in Harry’s head, blocking away the real memory and putting a new, easier one in his head. He’d been beaten and locked outside in the shed -- Vernon had done that before, twice, so there was a memory to draw on -- and passed out. When he woke up the house was on fire and someone, he couldn’t tell who, grabbed him and apparated him to Severus’s doorstep, who healed him. And then the game with Dumbledore began, Severus telling this story and bringing up a vow (a _different_ vow, one he’d made to protect Harry when he was only a baby) and arguing to keep him. In the end, reluctantly, Dumbledore agreed and, simple as that, Harry had a new ‘home’. 

It took a long time for him to think of it that way. Endless nights of quiet dinners and teaching sessions afterwards, always about something entertainingly new and fascinating to Harry, who loved magic like he’d loved nothing else. Endless days of Severus checking up on him, sometimes offering a quick bit of advice or explaining a tricky passage. A birthday celebrated not only by the two of them but also Neville, Michael, Sue Li, Morag, and, after Harry shyly admitted he’d made friends with a Slytherin, Theodore Nott. 

When the Dark Lord appeared late in the evening, after the party wound down and Harry had finally stretched his bedtime restriction to the limit and been tucked away for two hours, Harry woke up to the man sitting at the end of his bed. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was leaving your gift.” 

_But you already got me the library trunk_ , Harry wanted to protest, but the words stuck in his mouth to see the Dark Lord again after a month. He looked better, really, with more colour in his skin and less tiredness in his eyes. “Oh, thank you.” 

“You might as well open it now, then.” A slender rectangle was offered over to him, wrapped in a tasteful dark blue, like a proper adult present. Harry opened it carefully, not wanting to tear the wrap, and found another book. It was thin and a bit larger than an adult hand fully spread out, and looked strangely old, even older than a lot of the books in Hogwarts’ library. 

_Foundational Runic Spellwork and the Creation of Wards_. He read the title out loud and the wide, pleased smile on the Dark Lord’s face surprised him. It was approval, somehow, as if reading were difficult. 

_§’This is not English, Harry, and neither is that book.’§_

He startled. It felt like… when he’d talked to that snake in the zoo and let it loose. Staring down at the book for a long moment to look for the difference, to find some marker it is not English, does nothing. It looks as plain as any book. _§’What is it, then?’§_

“Parseltongue. _§’The Language’§_ , if describing it in Parseltongue. You and I are both Parselmouths, a very rare, valuable talent. Severus told me that during your Occlumency lessons he saw you release a snake from the zoo and seemingly speak to it. I’m surprised you have the talent but, then, it was known to be from the Slytherin line. The Potters, Light as they were, would likely have hidden it appearing.” His large hand reached out to stroke Harry’s thick, messy hair for a moment. “Hide it as well. Practice until you know if you are speaking English or not and then hide it. Do you understand?”

With a nod the moment finished, the Dark Lord stood, and told Harry to go back to sleep. 

Harry tried but it took a few minutes. From downstairs, he heard the Dark Lord speaking to Severus. _’When he’s ready I will be teaching him myself.’_ and then sleep dragged him under. 

The summer finished quickly, Harry immersed in his books and lessons, visits with his friends, and a strange new relationship with Severus. They went back to Hogwarts and Severus gave Harry a spare room newly attached to his own quarters, for use when he wanted somewhere quiet to stay or some relief from the dorms. To his surprise, he used them regularly. It was nice, having his own space at school, and he and Severus would sometimes spend the evening after dinner in the sitting room, the professor grading lessons and Harry writing for them. 

The Chamber of Secrets opened at Halloween, or at least someone claimed it had been in what looked like blood, and Harry started hearing a voice -- a snake’s voice -- in the walls. He told, of course, and Severus went white before excusing himself for the night, gone from Hogwarts entirely. Not long after that Harry stopped hearing the strange, vicious whispering from the walls. At the same time, Draco Malfoy started behaving strangely, far less pompous despite his new placement on the Quidditch team and often quietly withdrawn, as Theo told it. 

But Harry’s attention wasn’t on the Chamber or Draco Malfoy. He had magic to learn and, it turned out, a first-year Raven to save from bullying. Luna Lovegood tagged along with him often, after that, folded in his own friend group, and Harry’s life went on, much better than before he made his deal with the Dark Lord. 

Time moved so fast during the year that Christmas came quickly, taken at Hogwarts but quietly celebrated between him and Severus like a real family. Then it was Easter, then exams, then back home to Spinner’s End. 

It was the first time he thought it as home. As the years passed there, going between Spinner’s End and Hogwarts, Severus went from ‘sir’ to ‘Severus’ to ‘father’ to ‘dad’ with an ease that little Harry, before-Hogwarts Harry, would have found impossible. But he _was_ a dad, who reassured Harry after nightmares caused by dementors, who fought for him when Sirius Black was cleared of all charges with Dumbledore’s help and tried to gain custody, who helped him when he was entered in the Tri-Wizard Tournament because the Dark Lord wanted to see how he would fair (he won, thank you very much), who helped him come to terms with the idea that people were complicated and fallible and could do awful things (like James Potter’s bullying) and still love someone (like James Potter’s sacrifice). 

And through it all, in the background, the Dark Lord stood, keeping watch over Harry’s progress, gifting him item after item, book after book, to help him along the way. He’d come to expect those gifts, curious and a bit worried when All Hallow’s Eve of fourth year came in a wave of nervous anticipation for the school and a lack of communication from his benefactor. 

Then, the fucking Goblet, Dumbledore’s voice ringing out his name, and his father’s expression tight when he said he couldn’t free Harry from the contract. Finding the letter and a small package on his bed afterwards, putting the pendant on, taking up what the Dark Lord called the Marauder’s Map, and using the Time-Turner hidden within the pendant to move back three hours. 

The man who let him past the receiving room was unfamiliar and didn’t take dinner with them when the Dark Lord invited him in to sit. “You entered me into the tournament.” 

“Oh? I heard the culprit confessed.” 

And the seventh year Ravenclaw had, claiming that he’d done it to show the Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t the least bit special, but Harry knew what the look on his father’s face had been. “I hope you reward him, at least. He’s in a lot of trouble.” 

“You needn’t worry. His family are openly supportive of Dumbledore in the Wizengamot. He’ll protect the boy.” Openly supportive? Harry snorted. Spies, then, and part of a plot within plots. “I’ve given you the tools to win. I expect you to do it. The device will give you exactly twelve and three-quarters turns within a day, at two hours a turn. Now, tuck in. How are your runes studies going?” 

The Runes studies accelerated after that. How could they not? After all, Harry lived nearly two full days for every obvious one within Hogwarts, splitting his time between living a public life with his friends helping him for the Tournament and having a hidden life in a secretive room on the 7th floor that could make a space for anything you wish. 

All that time, Harry never forgot the vow. The Dark Lord was fulfilling his end and Harry would eventually have to fulfil his own. So he learned about the politics behind the Dark Lord’s movement, which were much more complicated than hatred of Muggleborns and the ‘unpure’ than Harry had expected. But even as the Slytherins, like Theo, taught him about what they thought the Dark Lord’s war was about, the Dark Lord himself clarified. 

Their conversations, and letters exchanged in Parselwrit, painted a very different picture. 

He’d gotten an indulgent smile when he asked why the Death Eaters’ children believed what they did. “For a time, when my mind was fracturing, I believed my own lies. Let that be a lesson about hubris. They _are_ lies, even if some of my Knights do not yet realise that. We need new blood or magic will die. What we do not need is the breeders influencing them; so they must die so that their orphans can be safely brought into our world where they belong.”

Harry had mulled that over but he couldn’t imagine anyone magical wanting to live with Muggles, even if they weren’t as awful as the Dursleys. No, children like him were better off in the magical world. Still… “You admitted lying. How do I know you’re not lying to me?” 

A soft sigh answered him and he bit his lip. “The fruition is far too close to risk lying to you and having you attempt to work around your vow when my deceit is revealed.”

“But… then, what happens when they know you’re lying?’

The Dark Lord had lifted up one corner of his mouth and Harry glanced down, freezing when a gentle touch stilled his chin and pushed it up. The moment the touch was gone he wished it back again. “My methods with you are quite different than my methods with the arrogant purebloods who had power and yet flocked to my cause to gain yet more, Little Prince. I can demonstrate, call someone now, if you’d like?” But Harry remembered Quirrell and his trembling, the way that he’d whispered of disappointing his master, and so he shook his head. “In any case, I expect they will fight the laws against nepotism harder than those about purity. Still, in the end they _will_ fall in line or they will perish.” He shrugged. 

“You’d kill them, for disobedience.” 

“If it were unavoidable.” A wave of a hand dismissed his concerns. “You needn’t worry. You are unique to me, my little prince. You would have to do something so impossibly disrespectful, so openly destruction, so… grand in scale for me to even consider destroying your potential. In a way, you have quite a bit of allowance with me, an… unique position of influence and consideration. After all, you did return me to health and sanity, did you not?” He smiled softly and hissed, _§’To say nothing of the bond that you and I share, our similarities. Tonight is not the time for this but ask me another night what else we share.’§_ Now, return to your father. I’ve kept you out late enough.”

The deeper these conversations went -- into theories of magic, the position of half-bloods in the revitalisation of the British magical community, the value of political moves versus open action, the purpose of deceit within one’s own base -- the harder it became to keep his mouth shut when another student claimed to speak for the Dark Lord’s side. It was easy enough to steer Theo into considering that there might be more to the political theory that ‘everyone’ knew, which led him to write his father. When the post had come back, three days later, Theo looked at Harry in a new light and conceded that perhaps ‘everyone’ and their ‘knowledge’ was wrong. 

Malfoy was a different story. Malfoy, now a little bolder and less pale than he’d been the last few years, blustered to Michael that ‘mudbloods like you will get yours when the Dark Lord returns!’ one night in the library. Theo had paled while Harry grew redder than ever. Still, he’d said nothing, opting instead to wait two days to hex Malfoy into the hospital wing for a week. His father’s disappointment had been palpable as he sighed quietly with an ‘at least you weren’t caught’. 

The Dark Lord, on the other hand, offered an approving smile and showed him how to make the hex more effective and less traceable. 

Time passed. Harry won the tournament and stopped using the Time-Turner quite so often, though he still regularly snuck out for an afternoon lesson there or a dinner here with the Dark Lord, when the man wasn’t too busy. He grew up, taking his studies more seriously than ever in his fifth year as questions of career began to circulate feverishly with his Ravenclaw year-mates, and even added extra lessons. Not only from the Dark Lord and his father, but also the injured Auror seeded by the Dark Lord into the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. 

Time seemed to dash by, even with his stolen hours, and the lessons done under the Dark Lord taught him more than he could have imagined magic was capable of when he was 11. Even as the lessons at Hogwarts seemed to drag behind he made certain to learn well from everyone. The Dursleys had taught him to ignore no resource, no matter how insignificant it seemed, and the driven nature of his mentor reinforced that. A brilliant and driven man, he expected Harry to be every bit as driven as himself. The end result put Harry ready for his OWLs by Christmas hols. 

He put the extra time to good use, getting a leg up on the 6th year curriculum in the areas he planned to take NEWTs for. OWLs brought high marks and a celebratory birthday dinner where Harry shared the seven NEWTs he’d chosen to pursue (including History, to his friends’ horror). The Dark Lord had weighed in over and over how important understanding history was to making plans in the future and when he’d heard he’d laughed. 

“You’ve shown even more potential than I’d hoped when you so brazenly offered me a bargain in that chamber.” 

“You took it out of my head!” Harry laughed back, a little tipsy from the cocktail he’d taken when offered. It was mostly juice, he was sure, but alcohol enough to make him flushed and relaxed. 

“You were thinking quite loudly, in my defence. And how does Severus feel about your decision to forego Defence this year, now that he is to teach it?” 

“He’s a bit disappointed, I think, but he understands that _Hogwarts’_ lessons won’t teach me anything he and Auror Dawlish hadn’t already covered. Sir --”

“Marvolo. You’re nearly an adult now, I think it’s time you use my given name.” 

His face heated. “Marvolo, did you put a curse on the Defence post?” A raised eyebrow answered him and he sighed. “Could you remove it? I don’t want anything to happen to my father.” 

“Always so very concerned, aren’t you? You really needn’t worry about these things. I’ve taken care of it and Severus is intending to resign at the end of the year. Like Dawlish, that intent will protect him from the curse.” The Dark -- No, _Marvolo_ reached up to brush a lock of hair out of Harry’s eyes. “Stay away from Horace Slughorn, Harry, outside of your course. He will try to collect you and I will not tolerate you allowing that.” 

When 6th year started Harry understood precisely what Marvolo had meant when, from that first train ride, Slughorn did what he could to ingratiate the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ into his collection. It made him uncomfortable, even outside of Harry’s orders, and he did his best to avoid the attention-loving man while still doing well in his class. 

Soon enough he had a bigger problem to avoid: Dumbledore. It drove him to double up his days again with the Time-Turner, working steadily towards his NEWTs goals’ and his new intention to take them a year early even as he tried to dodge the persistent Headmaster. 

Albus bloody Dumbledore, who’d gotten in the mind that the Dark Lord was back and finally began calling his own followers to him again. Dumbledore, who warned that once the Dark Lord felt secure he would come after Harry and subdue him publicly to prove that his threat was good (which, yes, of course he would have, which was why Harry made an effing deal with him back in the room with the mirror). Dumbledore, who insisted they do lessons that would ‘help’ Harry prepare against the Dark Lord in the future. 

It seemed, at least, that Dumbledore and the Dark Lord agreed on _one_ thing: history mattered. 

It wasn’t until one of their dinners, a fortnight after Dumbledore’s second lesson and the memory of young Tom Riddle, that Harry brought up the meetings. Marvolo had gone still, his eyes sharp, and asked, quietly, softly (dangerously), _’And what did you think of that meeting?’_

_‘You wanted someone to see how clever you were. You reckoned out so much and all he saw was a dangerous little boy, better off intimidated than helped.’ Harry had sneered. ‘He’s why you wanted me to hide my Parseltongue, isn’t it? The way he looked once you told him you could speak to snakes.’_

_’Yes, Little Prince. Dumbledore believes it to be an evil talent and is wrong in that as he is in many other things. Keep me apprised of any further memories he shows you.’_

And if the man had been moody, the energy offered a current of violence for the rest of dinner once when Harry finally explained more details on the first lesson -- on the meeting between Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle -- well, he could hardly be blamed for being so angry at the invasion of privacy. Though it had been strange, the way that Marvolo’s wand calloused fingers caressed over Harry’s half-faded scar, drawing the ever-present heat to the surface and forcing a full-body shiver through the teen. 

The look in the man’s dark blue eyes was even stranger, but he’d only smiled in the end and murmured, § _’My Little Prince,’_ § in the softest voice. 

It’d hurt to leave him that night but Harry obeyed, returning to Hogwarts and his father’s worried eyes. 

Only a few days earlier those dark eyes had focused on him, watching Harry unwrap a charmed pendant on All Hallow’s Eve, another customary gift-giving day from the Dark Lord. When he’d watched back, raising an eyebrow, Dad only shook his head. ‘I thought I had more time with you, but you’re growing up so insistently.’ 

Now, as Harry came back from that tense dinner with Marvolo, he sought out his father. Severus was sitting at his writing desk in their suite, grading what seemed like a truly underwhelming essay given the deep layers of red over it. He glanced up, raising an eyebrow at Harry stopping a meter from him. “Did you have a good time with your friends?” 

“I was with the Dark Lord.” 

The tension remained subtle but he saw it. “I hope no one noticed your absence.” 

For the first time, Harry tugged the small pendant-locket from inside his shirt. Warm from his skin, the varnished silver glinted in the light and showed off a raven and lion engraved on one side. A snake was engraved on the other and he hissed to the snake. §Open.§ From inside he took the Time-Turner. 

“No one ever does. He made certain.” 

“... Your growth spurt. It seemed all too much for a single year. And last year?” 

“Only to go see him. I’m using it this year, though, and I think I’m ready for my NEWTs. Ma - Far back, during the summer, the Dark Lord told me you’re going to resign at the end of this year. I was hoping we could travel this next one. I can take my NEWTs independently, at the International Confederacy in Munich, and we can travel to help me decide which of my choices I’d like to do a Mastery in. You said you wanted more time with me.” 

“Have you run this by Him?” 

“Not yet. I wanted to get your agreement first. I -- I hate being here. There’s Slughorn, who gives me the creeps, and Dumbledore, who clearly wants something from me. We both know whatever it is I’m not in a position to offer it even if I wanted to. I’ll miss my friends but they’ll be buried with NEWTs plans and, after that, the only thing left for me here is you, who’d go with me, and the Dark Lord, who I’m sure will approve of the idea.” 

Severus nodded. “If He approves of _both_ our absences then I’ll -- we, most likely, as I’m certain He’ll wish to make his own suggestions -- write up an itinerary.” 

“Thank you, Dad!” He swept over and gave the man a hug, crouched behind the chair to do it. 

When he drew back a slender hand grabbed one of his fiercely. “Harry, you must be careful. Your bargain with the Dark Lord will come due, soon, and you need -- I need you to be prepared for what he might ask of you.” 

Harry dropped down to his knees so that he wouldn’t need to crouch and nodded seriously. “I _know_. He might ask something of me I don’t want to give or even don’t know how to give. He’s never said what he wanted of me in detail. Living up to my potential is a bit vague.

“... Do you know something?” 

“No, nothing for certain and I wouldn’t care to speculate.” Black eyes narrowed at him. “I knew you were having dinners with the Dark Lord -- both you and he have shared as much and of course he wanted you on your birthday last year -- but these aren’t occasional dinners only of special circumstance, I suspect. How often?” 

“It’s not always dinner. Oftentimes it’s lessons. Those are at least once a fortnight, but sometimes it’s more often. Once a week this year as we move into Parselmagic. It’s amazing, dad, and he’s so excited to teach it to someone. It’s not as if he ever expected to have the opportunity.”

“I see… Have you been hiding injuries from me? The Dark Lord is not always the kindest teacher.” 

That made Harry smile because while he knew that -- he’d gotten to know Barty Crouch Jr., who lived with Marvolo, working as an aide of sorts, and he’d been more than willing to tell stories of what it’d been like in the 60s to 70s versus now -- he’d never actually seen that. “No, no injuries. Okay, sometimes duelling injuries but he has healing potions on hand for that and has taught me spells as needed. I know you knew I was learning duelling from somewhere; I’m one of the Ravenclaws that regularly attend the Slytherins’ Pit, thanks to Theo’s invitation.” 

That had started out as a safe way to make an arse out of Malfoy, Parkinson, and some of the other Slytherins, as Slytherins settled disputes in the duelling pit rather than in public. It turned out, though, that he rather enjoyed duelling in its own right and, in line with his true age, he could best all but one Slytherin by the end of last year. 

“I’m well aware of your acumen in the duelling pit, yes. What else is He teaching you?”

“It varies. Politics. Philosophy. History. He’s encouraged my Runic studies and, given how far ahead I am in them, because I inherited Mum’s skill at the discipline, he’s begun showing me Mastery material. Duelling, of course, and Parselmagic. The basics of Arithmancy since I opted not to take it in third year.” Harry shook his head. “A bit of everything, really, except Potions. He says that’s better learned from you. He’s a brilliant teacher, did you know?” 

“Yes. When he first recruited me I was one of his direct students while I was gaining my Potions’ Mastery.” Severus sighed quietly. “You hid the TimeTurner from me.” 

A squirmy feeling of guilt settled in Harry’s stomach but -- “He said to only reveal it if there was a good reason for it. Are you angry?” 

“No.” For a moment the dark gaze unfocused, as if his father was a million kilometres away, but it passed quickly. “You obeyed Him. I would expect nothing less.” It was true. Harry’s choices were spoken for, had been spoken for since he was 11 and, one could argue, hadn’t truly been fully his own since he was 15 months old. Severus nodded sharply. “Do you wish for me to broach this with him?” 

“No. I’m to go over for lessons at the weekend so I’ll ask him then.” 

With one last squeeze of the hand, Harry excused himself to go finish some schoolwork. Travelling would be fascinating and he was sure the Dark Lord would agree to it. 

For his part Marvolo thought travelling could serve Harry well, letting him see firsthand how magic differed or didn’t in many other countries. Marvolo even recounted a few anecdotes about his own travels after he left Hogwarts. 

That he wanted to be the Defence Against the Dark Arts’ teacher out of school only made sense, with the genuine love of teaching he seemed to have. That Dumbledore had blocked him from the position not only once but twice also made sense given the few memories he showed, the way the then-Transfiguration professor had forever been suspicious of Tom Riddle during his Hogwarts years. 

_’Of course, I_ was _already plotting at that age so he didn’t entirely misread me.’_

But Dumbledore didn’t seem particularly suspicious of Harry, who he sought out a few more times to ‘educate’ with people’s -- and house-elf’s -- stolen memories. The lack of respect for other people’s privacy gnawed at Harry’s sense of right and wrong, helped along by the fact that the headmaster’s grandfatherly act long since stopped working on him. After all, Dumbledore was responsible for placing him with the Dursleys, was responsible for putting a watcher on him (according to both his father and Marvolo, who explained who Mrs Figg was) and then failing to do anything with what that watcher would have reported back. He had no care for Harry, he showed no concern, and while Harry wasn’t owed that from him it made the act of pretending to care all that much more sour. 

The memories showed more of Tom Riddle’s childhood and when Harry reported as much Marvolo chose to fill him in on far, far more. More than anyone who hadn’t gone to Hogwarts with Tom, the original Knights of Walpurgis (later, once the war began, the Prophet would christen them the ‘Death Eaters’ due to the shape of the Dark Mark and whispers of rumour), knew, according to Marvolo himself. 

But it wasn’t until after the ‘lesson’ with a false memory from Horace Slughorn -- and Dumbledore expected Harry to get the real memory, after all the theft the old man had managed in getting the others! -- that Marvolo’s mood shifted again. 

It rained that night and Marvolo focused his attention on the misty window, despite the fog obscuring the view beyond it, instead of watching Harry as he might have done normally. “I told you once to ask me at a later date what else we share. Yet you’ve never asked.” 

“I reckon it doesn’t really matter to me. I… like knowing more about you, of course, to be in your confidence even a little bit, but I know my place in this.” 

That received a laugh, almost happy despite the sombre mood. “No, I don’t believe you do.” But he moved on before Harry could ask what that meant. “There was a prophecy made the August before you were conceived, one that tied you and I together directly.” Harry went still, his stomach clenching at the sudden certainty that this was why his parents had died, why he’d been attacked. “In my fractured state, I acted rashly and moved on it before I found the full account. 

“I’ve rectified that since then. All such prophecies are stored in the Department of Mysteries and, looking more like myself than ever, it was easy enough to slip in unnoticed. The prophecy’s fulfilled now, between the fact you did -- or you were used to -- kill my physical body and then we united in our bond.” Marvolo looked back at him, a strange expression on his face. “Dumbledore is attempting to lead you towards the revelation of my Horcruxes. There’s no other explanation now.” 

He went on, explaining what a Horcrux was, what he’d done when he was younger and how that’d led to his fractured state before the Philosopher’s Stone allowed him to recreate a body and absorb the Horcruxes now that he’d acquired a separate, more reliable, form of immortality. 

“Not all of my soul returned. The Locket has gone missing, the act of a traitor stealing it away from its hiding spot, but even beyond that another small sliver remains separated.” A purple light flashed out, slamming into Harry and flushing his system with heat as if he’d submerged himself in a hot bath. And Marvolo laughed, a ringing, mirthful sound that made Harry’s stomach flip even as he wondered why the Dark Lord laughed. “No, I suppose, given where you are, given our bond, it’s not separated from me nearly so much as I thought it might be.” 

“I-in me?” Harry choked out. “A piece of your _soul_ is _in_ me?” 

“It would seem. Ah, Dumbledore must know. You cannot let on, Harry, no matter how much you might wish to confront him. He’s attempting to show you that destroying my Horcruxes are the only way to destroy me, to ease you into your own death. I will not let that happen, do you understand? You will live.” 

_I don’t want to die._ He nodded roughly. “‘Course. I wouldn’t -- I’m not on Dumbledore’s side here.” Biting his lip, he asked, “Could you give me the true memory? In a way that would look like I got it from Slughorn? Pensieve memories show everything, not only what their owners saw directly, so does it matter if it’s yours or his?” 

“Yes. I will. Wait until Dumbledore calls you in for the next lesson before you offer it up, however. It will seem suspicious if you gained it so easily given your avoidance of Horace so far.” 

Months passed, as Harry moved beyond NEWTs material and into his own private studies of what Masteries beyond Runic works might involve -- he still wasn’t sold on a Runes Mastery or, at least, on not pursuing a hybrid one with another discipline -- before Dumbledore finally called him back to the Headmasters’ Office. 

Harry saw the memory of Dumbledore’s dismissive ‘interview’ for Defence professor. He watched the old man justify himself that ‘Tom’ hadn’t truly wanted the position and had ulterior motives for returning to Hogwarts. It disgusted him. Marvolo might well have had ulterior motives but he also enjoyed teaching, enjoyed sharing the knowledge he held, and would have been a brilliant professor had he been given a chance. What Dumbledore hadn’t wanted was Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, influencing the next generations’ views on Defence, Dark Arts, and magic in all; no, for the headmaster that sort of influence belonged to himself alone. 

Hypocrite. 

Biting down on the anger and, yes, the desire to confront a man who’d manipulated Harry’s life since, given the prophecy’s timing, before his very conception, the man who expected Harry to sacrifice himself for some nebulous sense of the proper course of history, he made it through this lesson. He shared the memory from ‘Slughorn’ that spoke of the Horcruxes and young Tom Riddle’s plan to make an arithmantically significant number.

The knowledge that Dumbledore was wrong and far too late to change anything helped Harry bite his tongue and he left the lesson without, he thought, causing any suspicion to come his way. 

Soon enough Dumbledore and his fascination with the Horcruxes ceased to be a problem. March turned into April, then May and June. Harry sat exams and cherished the time left with his friends, though he never shared his intent to leave early. It wasn’t until late one night nearly at the end of June that he was called back to the Headmaster’s office. This time his father insisted on coming along, hidden under James Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. 

It happened fast, a small moment between a dreaded personal encounter and his father turning everything on its head. They’d left Hogwarts to seek out one of these Horcrux objects as Dumbledore said but before they got further than Hogsmeade Severus revealed himself, stunning Dumbledore in a quick snap of magic and portkeying him away to the Dark Lord. 

It took Dumbledore three days to die. Three days to die and three nights of Harry dreaming, as he sometimes did, of what Marvolo was seeing, what Marvolo was doing -- the Horcrux at work, connecting them, tying them even closer together. As gruesome as it was Harry breathed a sigh of relief that Dumbledore could never manipulate or harm a child in his care again and moved on. 


	3. Chapter 3

Travelling turned out every bit as amazing as Harry hoped it would be. 

Everything from exploring the scrolls saved from ancient Grecian mages to crawling through ruins in the Romanian countryside that showed how runes structured magical architecture to exploring the melded magical styles in modern-day Prague combining non-magical religious practices with magical ritual -- All of it taught him there was so much more to magic than the Hogwarts’ curriculum or even the Dark Lord’s limited lessons. Every day of the trip he learned new applications for the knowledge he already possessed. Searching out the way that ancient Mesopotamian practices still influenced the practices of modern-day magic on the Arabian peninsula made him appreciate history more than ever. Polynesia showed him how wandless magical craft formed different types of magical societies. 

It felt like each place taught him more than the last and a planned four-month trip turned into six then eight and finally nearly a year. 

Eventually, the Dark Lord called him home. 

§ _It’s time that you are brought publicly into my circle, little prince,_ § Marvolo wrote one day in early spring. § _You’ve come into your own as an adult. Now, come home to me._ §

When Harry shared the news Severus stilled, his father’s pale face tight with sudden emotion. “We may ask for more time, if you’re not yet ready.” 

But Harry wasn’t so certain that was true. With Dumbledore’s body displayed, bloodied and broken, in the main square of Diagon Alley the All Hallow’s Day after his disappearance, the Dark Mark hanging in the air above him, there was little room left for denial. The Ministry had ousted Fudge at the next election and brought in the hardline Madam Bones, who mobilised the Ministry for war. Dumbledore’s organisation -- the Order of the Phoenix -- had doubled in intensity, breaking out into the open to join the fighting. 

Harry knew that he and his father could be useful there if they’d gone home; allowing the extra six months of travel and study was pure indulgence on the part of the Dark Lord. 

The return to the United Kingdom felt almost shocking, with the clash of the familiar against the sensation that he didn’t quite fit into this world the way he once had.

The public clamoured for his attention, the Ministry greeting him at the International Portkey station in King’s Cross before he even caught his bearings. A gruff, lion-y looking bloke named Scrimgeour, who introduced himself as the new Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head with Bones in higher office, tried to bully Harry into becoming a figurehead for the fight against the Dark Lord when the now 20-year-old hadn’t even been back in his homeland for an hour. That fact that Scrimgeour, who didn’t know about the Time-Turner, thought he was doing this to an 18-year-old only made it worse. The press came next and Harry ended up apparating to escape the obvious ambush Scrimgeour set up given that a journalist from the Daily Prophet laid in wait to photograph them together. 

By the time the evening finally ended Harry found himself absconded to a cozy, paranoidly warded personal home on the Welsh sea near Penparcau because the house on Spinner’s End offered only traps due to its registration as Harry’s official address in the Ministry. 

The cottage wasn’t large but thanks to the Dursleys’ upper-middle-class aspirations, always striving to appear to have money they could brag about to others, Harry knew how to recognise luxury. He’d seen Petunia fawn and whinge over it often enough. Now it surrounded him with each of the cottage’s seven rooms lushly outfitted with the type of fine ceramics -- plush rugs -- antique furniture -- meant to last for not only your life but as heirlooms. 

It felt strangely intimate compared to the larger Riddle manor that Marvolo kept for entertaining, much more lived in, and Harry could picture the man picking out the glittery blue vase filled with water and stones where it sat on top of the bookshelf or the wing-backed upholstered with a sinfully soft-looking velvet tucked into a reading nook.

“This is your home,” he said as the three of them took dinner together the first night. “Your personal home,” and Marvolo had nodded before insisting on briefing them on the state of the war. 

The next morning, after brunch, he’d dictated a handful of potions he needed Severus to brew and Harry was still in the process of wondering what he might do for his day while his father brewed when the man stood. “While I appreciate the offer of refuge here, my lord, I believe I will be better equipped to brew for you in my own lab at home. Harry?” 

“He stays.” 

“Surely you’re too busy to attend to him currently --” 

“ _Severus_ , he stays. I’m certain your own home would be better equipped for your task and so you have my leave. I expect an update on your progress a few days from now and in two weeks there is an initiation scheduled where I will be announcing Harry publicly.” 

After nearly a year of close company, it felt strange to say goodbye but Harry couldn’t help but feel his stomach flutter at the idea of staying here, in this place so entirely belonging to the Dark Lord. And the anticipation of the upcoming initiation nearly drowned him in nerves so that he brushed aside his father’s sad expression as they parted. Severus worried about Harry, every bit the father he’d once sworn off being, that was all. 

“What will happen? At the initiation.” 

Marvolo led him towards a plush couch, laughing when Harry tilted towards him awkwardly at the unexpected level of give. But when Harry tried to pull away he was brought closer instead. “No. Settle here.” A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and tucked him against the man’s side, their connection flaring to life pleasantly with the contact. “There, much better. This initiation will involve a few of your peers as well as two new Aurors recruited by Dawlish. 

“Typically I require them to commit a serious crime to help weed out the uncommitted as well as spies. We are all, each of us, bound by each other’s guilt and our complicity in the act. To betray your fellows is to implicate yourself. We have prisoners at the moment: a member of Dumbledore’s Order, a few Ministry workers who will be detrimental to our political aims, and a special guest of sorts. They will work well for this purpose.” _You have to kill someone or, at least, hurt them badly._ Harry swallowed hard but said nothing, so Marvolo went on, “Once the task is complete the initiate is Marked, either with my explicitly known mark or, in cases where I need someone to act covertly, in a variation of the Mark. 

“Your initiation will be different as is befitting your unique status in my life.” 

“Different?” His chest pounded. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be singled out like this. What if the others resented it?

“You will be Marked in private before your initiation. I hardly need to see you there to know your commitment to me, to us.” Marvolo brushed a kiss on the top of his head and Harry melted a little bit against his chest. The bond thrummed harder, a torturous sort of pleasure buzzing along his skin, sinking into his nerves until his heartbeat pounded in his ears and his --

 _Bloody hell._ Harry curled his legs up onto the couch and against his chest to hide his inappropriate reaction. He hadn’t had a poorly timed erection like this in a year! 

He threw a net out to capture something that might divide his attention and help him settle down. “Will I have the explicit mark? The way that Dad does?” 

“No, Little Prince. I’ll show you what I intend later. Come, now, tell me of… Let’s start with your favourite part of Prague.” 

Harry settled into the cottage over the next few days, happy to shut the demanding world of wizardry Britain out for a little while longer, but eventually, as the fifth evening came to a close he knew he couldn’t put off the question any longer. No matter how nervous he was he needed to know if in a little over a week he’d be judged publicly. 

“Marvolo, I was wondering… you’ve never said what my end of the exchange would be. Of course, we said that if you took care of me I’d join you but what does that mean? I think I could be a real help in fights against the Ministry and the Order and, well, now I’ve decided on the joint Runes/Potions Mastery I should someday be able to design better magical objects.” 

He wanted to take a crack at making an improved Time-Turner that drew less energy from the user. Or to create a Pensieve that would reject altered memories and could broadcast the memories to a large crowd so that memory testimony could be better used in education and court. Would that really be of enough use to Marvolo to satisfy the vow, though? The man was plenty brilliant on his own and had shown Harry dozens of spell, ritual, and object inventions over the last few years. 

“Of course you’ll be of aid in the fight and the Runes/Potions hybrid Mastery seems like an ideal use for your talents once the core fighting is put to bed, but simply joining me in any capacity is enough to satisfy the Vow we made. Still, more join my cause every day as Knight and Death Eater shock troops or simply allies. For _you_ both fate and I have far greater aspirations now that the time has come to give you your Mark. 

“Come with me. There’s no necessity in putting off your Mark any longer; we’ll do it tonight.” 

His stomach somersaulted and the cocoa he’d had as an after stuck in his throat as he tried to swallow down those nerves. The Dark Lord led him into a back corner of the house, into the only room he’d never seen before. At the centre stood a large, curtained bed with a small nightstand next to it, outfitted in deep blue, green, and black pieces of bedding. Along the walls on every inch of available space were bookshelves broken up by only a cracked door leading to a toilet and a wardrobe that stretched along the far wall. 

“Um. We’re marking me here?” 

“You need to be flat on your stomach.” Warm fingers brushed over his shoulder blades, running the full breadth of his narrow frame. “This is where the Mark will go. Please disrobe from the waist up.” 

_I’m going to be in his bed half-naked!_ Never in any of his realistic hopes had he ever expected this. Sure, he’d dreamt about it -- both the naughty sort of dream and softer, lovelier ones -- and he’d desperately fancied the man back in fifth year but he knew nothing could come of it. 

The Dark Lord _taught him_ , treated him like a pupil or, at best, a protégé, and had far better choices than a relatively inexperienced teenager (or 20-year-old) to bed. Of course that was still true. He simply needed a flat enough, large space that he could use to do the Marking, however that process worked. That convinced Harry’s cock of exactly nothing but he managed to hide it while quickly stripping, glad Marvolo seemed too preoccupied with gathering supplies to notice the erection. 

“Typically the Mark is done with a simple layered spell. It’s not a very complicated piece of work at the core of it, designed only to allow me to call my people to me, summon -- force Apparate -- them, or punish them for disobedience. Your Mark, however, will be a many-layered thing, a ritual marking.”

“Ritual? You mean using runes?” 

“Runes, yes, but also symbolic imagery and the use of active ingredients within the dyes.” The bed dipped on his left side as the Dark Lord dropped a sturdy wooden chest and opened it, bringing a scroll out first. Harry propped himself up on his elbows to see. “Would you like to view the sketch first?” 

“No.” He smiled. “I’d rather see it for the first time once it’s on me.” The nerves faded a bit as the anticipation swooped in, the Marking finally, after all these years, being real. He would be Marked by the end of the night. Or at least within the next few days. “Will this take long?” 

“At least an hour.” A strong hand pushed his hair back away from his face. “It will hurt. That bit is unavoidable, even for someone as precious to me as you are. For the ritual to complete this act must have a cost in exchange so I won’t be able to give you anything for the pain.” 

Precious. His chest felt like it might burst in happiness, spill it all out over the silky duvet. He was precious to Marvolo. “I can handle pain, Ma… my lord.” The last he nearly whispered, tasting the words on his tongue. “My Lord,” he managed louder. 

“Oh, how lovely that sounds on your lips. Now, settle down.” Warm hands took each of his, placing first one and then the other parallel to his head. “Comfortable? … Good. From this moment on be still. I will move you if you must be.” 

Harry made an agreeing noise, not so much as moving his head to nod, and waited. The first touch burned like ice rubbing off a layer of his skin (disinfecting?) before the Marking began. Most of the initial burst of words meant nothing to him but when it transitioned to Old Norse, which he’d painstakingly learned as part of his Runes studies, he paid attention. 

The first layer was protection. Protection from within, protection from without. Immunity to blades, to hexes, to poisons, and fire. Exclusion from self-harm and accidental self-inflicted injury. 

The second layer was amplification. To make him stronger, faster, better able to breathe, quicker in reflexes. To add to his senses of hearing and sight. 

The third layer was observation. This went far past allowing a calling or summoning. It established a link between Harry’s state of being and the Dark Lord’s mind and even from the first whispers he could feel the changes. 

It was a tattoo, the Mark, unlike the Dark Mark, and it hurt, as promised, to have the ink placed beneath his skin. The more it touched on bone the worse it hurt and Harry caught little pained sounds behind his teeth, making himself bear it. When the ink -- the dye -- began work on the third layer the pain meant little to him as his mind, instead, grew heavy with emphasis. He could feel the Dark Lord in his head the way he sometimes came to Harry’s dreams, bridging the divides in the man’s soul. When it hurt now the bond between them buzzed stronger in response, the pleasurable, safe warmth of it dragging him under sluggishly. 

“Feelss goooood.” Harry’s eyelids dragged down as he slurred. 

A bright, masculine laugh answered him. “And now?” The buzz grew into a trembling vibration, a purr. He felt as sleepy and content as a cat even when the tools dug harder against his bone and he felt the breach of skin. 

“Mmm.” Slow, deep breaths. “Wanna be touch all ‘e time.” 

“You have my leave to do so, if you wish. The connection between us is quite pleasurable, is it not? For now, shh; I need to incant.” 

Harry distanced himself from his body, a trick he’d learned with the Dursleys, when the real rune work began. Each new rune flared bright with heat, with pain, as the incantations gave them weight, and it went on and on. He must be covered with them. The distance helped him bear through it; he never asked for a break and if one was offered he didn’t notice. 

Sometime later Marvolo climbed on the bed, straddling Harry’s hips and casting magic. The worst digs of pain disappeared in a breath. “There, a spell to help heal the skin. Now an ointment.” But this application was no delicate dabbing of paste on a burn wound. Instead, a liquid poured over his skin, pooling down his spine, and strong, bare hands rubbed and kneaded the ointment in. The sharp, sweet smell of arnica covered him and Harry tried to relax, to find that distant place again, but each strong stroke into his sore muscles drew a moan. 

_Fucking hormones._ He whined at the next lovely touch. “Mar -- My Lord.” 

“You may still call me Marvolo in private, darling, though I won’t deny how I enjoy the sound of you gasping ‘My Lord’.” Marvolo pulled off, sitting off to the side so suddenly it felt jarring. “Come, sit up before your limbs fall asleep.” 

Harry tried, struggling with unsteadiness as his nerves woke up after being still for so long. “I’m spoiled for others now,” he said, on edge of whinge even as he tried to play it for a laugh. “You touching me on the hand is more brilliant than anyone else touching me on my --” He flushed, unwilling to finish the thought out loud. “Well, anywhere, really.” 

A hand cupped his cheek. Marvolo’s eyes flashed a quick red. “That Mark is for me alone. I would not allow any… paramour you might acquire to touch your bare back again. The presumption of touching what’s mine will exact a toll.” 

A burst of warmth curled up in Harry’s stomach, made itself at home in his skin, at the crack of possessiveness in the other man’s voice. 

At Hogwarts, Harry had done his fair share of snogging in dark corners of the common room set up with his friends. He’d done more in the retrofitted abandoned classroom he claimed -- the Map had been dead useful in finding spaces no one ever went, locations unwatched by portraits or statues or other means, and he’d taken advantage to steal privacy to experiment with what he liked. The more worked up he’d gotten over dinners with the Dark Lord, a mess of teenage hormones with the attention of an incredibly fit man, the more he’d sought out distractions, tried new people, tried new things, trying to purge himself of fancying the unobtainable. 

_Is it truly so impossible?_

“What’s yours, hmm?” Harry chewed at his lip before turning his mouth up into a teasing smile. “Does it have ‘property of Marvolo Slytherin’ inscribed on it then?” 

But the man’s eyes only flashed red again as the Dark Lord offered a wolfish smile back. “In a manner of speaking. Sit still while I fetch a camera.” 

Posing for the photo took a few minutes as Harry kept fidgeting, excitedly curious about what his Mark might look like. To his surprise his entire left shoulder blade was taken up by a raven made of black and a deep blue, its wings spread widely behind it as if it were breaking a dive. It reminded him a bit of how he used his arms to balance after a Wronski Feint and he traced his fingers over the photograph slowly. “Why this? It can’t be just because I’m a Ravenclaw.” 

“No.” Marvolo snorted. “No, nothing to do with that at all. Ravens are messengers, travellers, who act as psychopomps in dreams and in movement between this world and… beyond. If there is a beyond. They’re omens of prophecy. You, my sweet Raven, have been touched by death and yet you prove yourself shockingly immune to it, don’t you?” Harry fell quiet somberly but he couldn’t deny the accusation; it was Marvolo who knew, for a fact, that Harry had survived the Killing Curse. “The serpent draped over your right shoulder is mine, of course.” 

He smiled. “Of course.” He recognised this serpent immediately as a bush viper from the textured, vibrant scales. Highly venomous but deceptively beautiful -- yes, that felt about right. This one was a lovely mixture of dark green and soft yellows, contrasting nicely with the raven, and the image might have looked almost adversarial if not for the golden runes winding around each animal, forming a tight and twisty ring of words into a chain that linked the two. 

It was poetry. Ritual poetry about him, about what he’d borne and survived, about the Dark Lord’s hopes for him personally and promises to him intentionally. Flowery and gentle Harry found himself blinking away tears. It _felt_ like a love poem. 

Deep black Parselwrit completed the Mark, filling in spaces not taken up by the raven or the serpent or the Futhorc poetry, though it took him a moment to realise it wasn’t English. The vow set with these carefully chosen words that his Lord bestowed upon him and with the addition the Mark covered the entirety of Harry’s shoulder blades on both sides. 

“Thank you, my Lord. It’s beautiful.” 

“Thus fitting. When you’ve completed your first kill I will add a small mark at the top of your spine.” Marvolo’s warm hand ran possessively over the Mark he’d placed on Harry’s body. “You should rest.”

“I --” _Want to stay._ “Alright. I am strangely sleepy.” 

“The Mark pulled upon your magic. Rest well, my psychopomp.” 

Over the next week Harry healed, the ointment reapplied nightly to keep the swelling down and help the magic settle into his skin. Every moment he fought to adjust to the physical changes the Mark and the ritual behind it brought, growing stronger and gaining stamina to go with the faster reflexes. It helped him move closer to matching Marvolo hex for hex, trick for trick, in their duels practice and he grinned when, on the seventh day, he got in a hit he would never have managed before. 

_’Are there more rituals I can do to improve myself?’_

_‘In time. Your body must grow into them. It took me five years to complete the set I designed for myself when I was your age.’_

He couldn’t wait. 

As the night of the initiation grew closer Harry’s nerves grew too. Until now no one besides his father, not even his closest friends with families loyal to the Dark Lord like Theo Nott and Morag MacDougal, knew about his loyalties. On Saturday night that would all change. Theo had been hinting around an obligation he had in their exchanged letters for weeks now, almost as a warning (without incriminating himself so blatantly in black ink), and Harry asked that Marvolo confirm it Friday night. 

They were sat on the couch again, Harry leaning up against Marvolo’s side, his stomach thrumming with the low fizzy pleasure, boxed in by his lord’s strong touch. “Yes, he’ll be there. Ms. MacDougal will be as well. Both had extremely promising NEWTs results and I’m hoping to seed Ms. MacDougal into the Unspeakables.” 

“Oh. What about Theo? He turned down an Arithmancy apprenticeship but hasn’t said what he plans to do.”

“He’ll take up his role in his family’s illegitimate business trade within Knockturn Alley. Thaddius Nott’s family were not well off when we were in school but then he fell in love with a witch who was heir of a prospering Knockturn family.” Theo’s mum had died when he was only two, though he’d always been tight lipped about how. “As her only child Theodore is expected to assume her position when he finishes school.” 

Harry knew his friend’s family was involved in some shady business dealings but this sounded more organised. “A Knockturn family?” 

“Mm, the Rolf firm. They run gambling and prostitution, primarily, though there’s some money in illegal Potion trade. I imagine he doesn’t speak of it? Darker families with inborn wealth such as the Malfoys look down upon their methods and Lighter families, such as the Longbottoms, wish to close down Knockturn’s illicit markets.” 

“He’s part of an organised crime firm? He’s never said any --” It hurt a bit to think his friend didn’t trust him but, then, look at Harry. “I haven’t a stone to throw, do I? I never told him my loyalties to you.” _At least now we can be more honest with each other._ “I can’t… It almost doesn’t seem real that tomorrow I’ll be officially out as a Death Eater.” 

“No. _Not_ a Death Eater, my psychopomp,” Marvolo said firmly. “A Knight of Walpurgis. The world may conflate the two but I do not, not any longer.” It was still a rough subject to speak about the time leading up to his attack on the Potters, when his mind was compromised by the creation of too many Horcrux objects. 

What Harry understood now was that the Horcruxes took more than young Tom Riddle had expected, that it happened so gradually his insanity only became apparent in the late 70s as he became more and more obsessed with his own propaganda, and that exposure to the Elixir of Life had forcibly reset him mind, body, and soul. The Horcruxes that did still exist -- namely Harry and the missing Slytherin Locket -- weren’t enough to destabilise that careful restoration and Marvolo was mostly embarrassed by his increasingly irrational actions as his mind had splintered. 

What Harry mostly cared about was that, as the Pensieve memories of key moments had shone, Marvolo hadn’t been sane when he attacked the Potters and attempted to kill a _baby_. 

“A Knight, then, but one that goes to war with you. You’re not going to leave me off the battlefield because I’m a Horcrux, right?” 

The other man’s mouth pulled up at one side, in a slightly off smile. “As I don’t wish to need punish you when you inevitably disobey, no.” He glanced at the clock as the cuckoo began to call eleven. “Come, off to bed with you so that you’re well-rested for tomorrow.” 

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, frowning as the Dark Lord brought him through a glittering drawing room, full of lush portraits and a lovely wing-back chair, past a locked door and down onto the steep, narrow steps leading to the cellar of Malfoy Manor. 

A heavy door clicked open and a bright witch-light flared on, revealing a musty, dank room beyond where several piteous figures huddled, hugging themselves as they shied away from the area near the door. One looked strangely familiar, with a heart shaped face and focused brown eyes, but it wasn’t until her hair cycled to a shocked white blonde that Harry recognised her. 

“Tonks?” 

“Harry, what are --” Her eyes went hard as she watched the Dark Lord and she opened her mouth, a sneer on her lips, to no doubt say something upsetting. She probably thought he was a prisoner too. He slapped her section of the small room with a silencing spell before she could make things worse. 

“She’s my cousin,” he said quickly, addressing Marvolo instead of her. “I met her when I went to visit Sirius each summer. She’s an Auror and has always been nice to me.” 

“She’s a member of the Order of the Phoenix,” the Dark Lord agreed, his chin lifted regally, his voice cleanly authoritative in the manner that always made Harry’s nerves light up with awareness. 

“Oh. That’s a shame. She’s such a rare talent and it’s not as if that’s being passed on from Sirius. The rest of the Blacks are older, too.” Harry frowned. He’d only spent a few weeks around Tonks but he’d liked her, liked her more than he liked Sirius (who refused to see the problem with the Marauders’ bullying no matter what) even. He’d really rather she not die but that wasn’t a good enough reason to ask his Lord to spare an Order member and he knew it, so he cast around for another thought. “If she were willing to have a baby couldn’t she be spared? The talent is so rare. It mightn’t recover if it dies out now.” 

A dark brow raised in answer. Oh, yes, Marvolo knew exactly what Harry was really after. “And you think she’d agree to that if it meant raising the child under guidance or not at all?” 

She’d paled drastically, her hair cycling wildly, for her part and Harry went over, crouching before her. “The Order will lose. You must know that. There’s no winning for your side here; I was a fluke that saved Dumbledore and the corrupt Ministry last time and this time I stand with the Dark Lord. I do that because I’ve learned it’s not as simple as the propaganda would make it seem. You probably don’t believe that.” Her glare said she definitely didn’t believe that. “But if you agree to have a child today you can find out for yourself. If I’m lying or wrong then you can always kill yourself, right? If I’m _right_ then things will be better. Isn’t it worth trying? You’re no good to anyone dead.” 

Marvolo stepped up behind him, rubbing two fingers over the top of Harry’s spine as he stared down at both of them. “I’ll allow the offer. What do you say Ms. Tonks? If you decline you will die today, mere hours from now, in a great deal of pain. A simple nod will do.” 

It took… well, longer than Harry would have expected from someone being offered a generous lifeline but finally Tonks nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. He smiled up at his Lord and straightened. “Thank you!” 

“She isn’t why I brought you down here.” Marvolo pointed to a trembling figure wedged deeply into the far corner. When it -- he -- noticed the Dark Lord’s attention he launched himself forward, bowing deeply, his mouth running with words before he realised he was under the Silencing Spell Harry had thrown towards Tonks. “Come forward.” 

The saggy figure had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a lot of weight in a short time and a large bald-patch on the top of his bowed head as he shuffled forward on his hands and knees to the empty part of the cellar, near the still cracked door. The Dark Lord struck out with a spell and immediately squeaky little whimpers sounded from the man at their feet. “ _My Lord, My Lord, please, what have I d-done to d-displease you, M-Master?_

“Displease me? Mm.” Marvolo looked over at Harry, his dark eyes filled with emotion. “This is Peter Pettigrew, Harry. Wormtail, as he would have been known to your father. As cowardly and traitorous as he is, he has been of use to me on occasion.”

Harry went cold, his attention fully on the sniveling man bowing before him. “I try, Master. I serve you.” 

“I thought I would offer him to you.” Wormtail went shock still, his muscles seizing up with terror. Harry could hear the rat’s painfully pounding heart. “After all, it was not only his best friend and your parents he betrayed; he betrayed _you_. He would have seen you dead to protect his own skin. _§Unlike myself, he had no justification of madness and he was their_ friend _. They trusted him.§_.” Marvolo gently stroked the back of Harry’s hair before resting his base of the neck, a warm and comforting presence. “I thought it best to do your initiation here rather than up in the ballroom for the meeting.” 

_In case I reacted badly._

Harry nodded and, after a moment’s thought, said, “Stand up.” Wormtail cowered so Harry kicked him gently to get his attention. “Pettigrew, stand up.” 

“Please, Harry, little Harry, you look so much like your father,” he said between whimpers, pushing himself up to a stand. He was slightly shorter than Harry and his bowed shoulders made him appear even shorter still. “... but… you see… like I saw, you see the Dark Lord is powerful beyond imagining, that there is no reason to fight him… please… you see what I saw! You must or you wouldn’t be here!” 

And Harry did. He’d made a not dissimilar decision to throw his lot in with the Dark Lord nearly half his life ago because he saw that the man could help him and it wasn’t worth the pain to spite him for the sake of vengeance over parents he had never known. 

Still, there was a key difference between himself and Wormtail. “I never betrayed my friends to do it. I protect my friends.” He had, gaining the Dark Lord’s indulgent agreement to spare Neville Longbottom, the Lightest of Harry’s mates. “I would never give them up, not even to my Lord, without a fight.” 

“I had to! He would have killed us all! He was taking over everywhere! What was there to gain by opposing him?” 

Harry’s lip curled. “I don’t know,” he drawled. “The life of a child your best friend trusted you with? Instead you were a coward. A traitor. A baby killer too pathetic to even do it with your own hands. And… where were you, all this time? You were supposed to be dead.” Sirius had told Harry that Pettigrew wasn’t dead but the story had sounded nonsensical at the time; he’d assumed that the distortion was an effect of the Dementors. 

“He hid as a rat.” 

“Oh, christ. With the Weasley family, that prat Ron and his prank-loving brothers -- I thought Sirius was mad.” He turned to Pettigrew. “You lived as a rat for years?” 

“I needed to stay close, to watch for the Dark Lord’s return. When he called I returned to him, I did. I’ve served you loyally, Master, I have.” 

Marvolo raised an eyebrow. “Service out of fear for your own meager existence. It bought you a score of years but cowards and traitors are always such given the right incentive. Harry, darling, he’s yours to do with as you wish,” he said quietly, his shoulders tense and his tone quite dangerous. “He is nothing compared to you.” 

For a long drag of minutes, as the other prisoners in the cellar did their best to draw no attention to themselves -- save Tonks, who stared at Harry quite determinedly, as if trying to communicate something non-verbally (perhaps merely disapproval given how upset she appeared) -- Harry considered that. ‘Do with as you wish’ had more alternatives than simply killing the man despite the role Pettigrew was clearly meant to serve in Harry’s initiation. 

_§'What if I don’t want to kill him? What if I want to make him into a servant instead?’§_

A warm hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. _§’His life is in your hands. As I told you when I gave you this Mark,’§_ Marvolo said, pressing his palm harder against Harry’s shoulder blade, where the raven representing himself was etched into his skin, _§’I needn’t anything to prove your commitment to me, my pretty psychopomp. If you wish to make him a servant, do so. Do whatever you wish to him.’§_

Harry knew the Dark Lord would consider Wormtail his responsibility if he spared him. _He’s a coward and a traitor. Do I really want that in my household?_ And, really, what was he supposed to do? Present Wormtail to Sirius and wave off how he’d gotten a hold of the man? 

_§’I want his body publicly displayed. I can’t drop it at Sirius’s feet directly but this way he’ll_ know _his blood-brother’s been avenged.’§_

“Of course, I’ll make certain it’s done.” A spell lashed out, locking Pettigrew in place without freezing him. He squirmed against his invisible bonds as Harry put a bracing hand on the man’s quaking shoulder.

Conjuring a knife took only a small amount of concentration and soon Harry held a large, serrated blade in his steady hand. He could have used magic directly to kill Pettigrew -- the illusionary peace of the Killing Curse or the more visceral violence of a Severing Charm across the neck -- but if this was to be his first kill Harry wouldn’t shy away from it. He would do it with his own hands, not allow himself the false sense of distance. 

“Please, Harry, little Harry, please, I can serve you, you needn’t kill me, please Master, let me serve him,” the words fell out of Wormtail at rapid pace, turning into a rumbling of sound more than specific pleas. 

Harry shushed him softly. “It’ll be over in a minute.” He placed the tip of the knife between the ribs and pushed _up_. It slid in with rough, meaty resistance, fighting him as he twisted the blade. The thump vibration of the heart beyond it, struggling to beat, felt strange and he yanked the knife back. “Fuck.” Blood gushed from the wound, spurting violently over his hands, sticking to his fingers, thick and dark and so hot it almost burned. 

He dropped the knife. 

Pettigrew died on his knees, red pouring from his chest, blood and bubbles dripping off of his lips, and Harry began shaking a moment later. Somehow they got out of the cellar, through the manor house into a pristine, white marble bathroom, the golden sink filling with water. Marvolo dipped a cloth in the steaming water and wrapped it around Harry’s right hand gently. 

“Shh, shh.” 

Harry realised he was panting, a whine coming from within, and cut off the sound. He couldn’t speak when he tried. The blood had been so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be so hot. Marvolo settled him down, sitting him on the edge of the tub and kneeling before him, their eyes level with each other. A spell cleaned the blood stains off the front of Harry’s robe. Oh, he’d been drenched in it. 

“A spell would have been less messy,” Marvolo chided gently but he didn’t sound upset. “Mmm, red is a good look on you.” His long, slender fingers pressed carefully where they held Harry’s wrist. “Your pulse is steadying.” 

When Harry still said nothing another hand cupped his cheek, a warm thumb stroking over the soft skin and the slight brush of stubble. “I --” _hadn’t expected the blood to be so hot._ “I didn’t want to use a spell. I killed him. Me, personally, not as a consequence of something else I did like with you and the Dursleys. I _should_ feel that.” He blinked back a strange gleam of tears, hoping that the other man didn’t think less of him for being so upset. “Maybe I should have used a spell.” 

“It would have been easier,” Marvolo agreed. Then he chuckled. “When have you ever done the easier way, however. No, I’m not surprised you made this harder on yourself.” A rush of heat hit Harry’s cheeks and he looked away, but that only received a cluck and a soft touch to his chin, pushing it to lift. “It wasn’t a critique, darling, but a sign of your maturity that you understand that decisions should have costs. Any leader who believes or acts as otherwise is a poor leader who will lead his people to ruin.” 

It helped him focus, this talk, by creating friction for him to argue with. “I’m not a leader. I follow. I follow _you_.” 

“Oh, Harry. Haven’t I told you over and over that you’re unique to me, little Prince?” Marvolo traced a thumb over Harry’s lips. “I’ve waited for you to be ready to step up to your appropriate place at my side. I never wanted you to kneel to me. You are to be knelt to.” 

They were so close suddenly, the Dark Lord drawing Harry up to his feet, their bodies pressed close. Then he felt the movement of the other man bending down, bringing their mouths close together, held in the moment of anticipation before a kiss. Harry pushed himself on his toes to complete it. Surprisingly soft lips brushed against his before a gentle, teasing nip to his bottom lip dragged Harry back into his body, away from the memory of meaty flesh and hot blood. This moment of pure, pulsing pleasure replaced it and he opened his mouth to the kiss, moaning when a strong tongue began to explore his own, whimpering when the hand on his cheek slid behind his neck and gripped tightly, holding him in place. 

All too soon the other man pulled back, chuckling when Harry tried to follow. “No. I’ve waited long enough that I’m unwilling to rush this; when I finally claim you I will take my time to strip away all your defences until only you, my pretty psychopomp, and your desperation for me remains. Time for that is, unfortunately, currently in short supply.” 

“Waited?” 

“I knew what I wanted of you the moment that you stepped up behind Quirrell and fought to make a bargain with me, the boogeyman of the magical community’s nightmares. Every interaction since then has only confirmed that decision.” The hand still gripped the back of his neck, holding him firmly, and he melted into the authoritative touch. “Tonight I will present you to our people as my fated equal, the only survivor of the Killing Curse, the light to my dark. Tonight you will begin to learn what it means to lead.” 

His stomach twisted in sudden revolt but he swallowed down his panicked nerves. His father’s voice came to him, the memory vivid in his focus. 

_’Harry, you must be careful. Your bargain with the Dark Lord will come due, soon, and you need -- I need you to be prepared for what he might ask of you.’_

_‘Do you know something?’_

_‘No, nothing for certain and I wouldn’t care to speculate.’_

But Severus had figured it out, hadn’t he? He hadn’t wanted to panic Harry with the knowledge, clearly, but he’d seen it himself. _I wish he’d told me._ Because Harry wasn’t panicked at the idea that the Dark Lord wanted _him_ , that he was special to Marvolo. He was elated. 

“I thought it was hopeless,” Harry said, laughing, as he leaned up for another kiss. “I thought I was just a stupid child to you.” 

“You are my prophesised equal. You protect a portion of my soul. You were never a stupid child to me, even when you were a child. After all, that child stood strong and full of cunning in front of the Mirror of Erised and me without flinching. Every challenge since then you’ve met with poise and intelligence, proving inevitably that you are worth the title of prince that I bestowed upon you.” Warm hands shifted, gripping his jaw on either side and Marvolo met him gaze for gaze, certainty all but flowing from him. “You agree to be mine, then?” 

“ _Fuck yes_.” 

“Good. Come along, then. The meeting is about to start and I have a consort to present to my Knights.” The loss of touch made him mourn the moment, wishing they could stay here like this or, better yet, go back home to a bedroom. Instead the Dark Lord lifted up the voluminous hood on Harry’s dress robe, shrouding his face in shadow.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, seeing the dried and drying streaks of blood still on his wrist and his cheek. “Let me do a quick cleaning spell.”

“No. Let them see you like this, let them know that you do not shy away,” Marvolo ordered. 

Oh. Oh! Harry thought his chest might burst from pleasure at the knowledge he was precisely what his Lord -- his partner! -- wanted in an equal. He was to be presented to the Death Eaters as the _Dark Lord’s_... but not only as a follower, not only as a useful fighter for the cause of a changed society, but as a partner. 

He took one more deep breath before they reached the ballroom where the Knights of Walpurgis and Death Eater gathered for an initiation of fellow fighters into their ranks. Inside the vast, glittery cavern of the ballroom many bodies milled around each other with expectation, far more than the inner circle that he knew the most about. He noticed a nervous looking Morag and a steady Theo, both standing off to the edge of the crowd with three others, awaiting their initiation. The ivory masks of the Death Eaters hid the face of the men and women best known for sowing chaos and many others had simpler masks of the more common Knights. 

Weaving between the bodies as they flowed out of the way for their Lord, Harry followed along, climbing onto a small dais at the end of the ballroom. When nerves nearly overtook him he felt Marvolo pushing at the edges of that conscious thought, the Mark on Harry’s back magnifying the soul-anchored bond. That reassurance hummed louder and surer until the other man’s certainty blocked out even the buzz of conversation echoing in the ballroom. 

In a sudden hush, all conversation fell silent as Marvolo pulled Harry close to him. “My Knights! Welcome to another glorious welcoming of new fellows. Tonight we shall gain five new members, assuming all survive their initiation. Before that, I have good news to share with you all.” 

This was it. There was no turning away from the attention now. This was the start of the public life for him as Harry Prince, a life better than the Boy-Who-Lived’s life had ever been. The crowd gasped as he pushed the hood down, showing his face to this world, letting his magic pulse away from him in a way he’d never intentionally done before. 

_§’You’re shining.’§_

Harry bit the corner of his lip and clutched Marvolo’s hand. _§’I’m happy.’§_

Marvolo squeezed it lightly back, then raised his voice to speak. “Harry Potter is dead. Welcome now Harry Prince to our fold as your new Consort. He has proven his loyalty to me in the deliverance of Albus Dumbledore and now he shall be at my side, proving his loyalty to our cause to you and all of magical Britain!” He raised their joined hands above their heads and soon a roar of sound began to build, whispers turning to statements and finally to shouts of surprise and excitement. 

Harry cleared his throat. “To the resurrection of magical Britain for magical folks.” 

The crowd answered. ‘To magical Britain!’ ‘To our victory!’ ‘To us!’ until it became a wave of noise, a roar of approval. Today was only the beginning. There was so much to look forward to.


End file.
